Not So Fast
by Eulalie Moire
Summary: Why does everyone say, I don't remember, it happened so fast? It doesn't always. Not HBP/DH-compliant.
1. The Crusades

_Not So Fast  
_Eulalie Moire

_Disclaimer_: The usual: it all belongs to J.K. Rowling, genius that she is. I'm just borrowing and I make no money. And besides, if I did own anything, I'd want it to be Remus...and the twins.

It did _not_ all happen so fast. It was _not_ all one big blur. She _did_ remember exactly what happened. She had stood and watched, seen it all, had it burned into her memory in exquisite detail.

She herself had not cracked, not in three days. Say what he would for Gryffindor courage, she would have liked to see most members of the other houses pull that off. She had not cracked—no, not said one word except to scream out her agony. And she must have screamed out his name once or twice, because they knew, knew what no one else, except probably Dumbledore, knew.

His problem was that he had denied it, said they had never been lovers, said they had never touched each other. "Tell that to the woman screaming your name down in the dungeons." The look on his face had been enough to cast suspicion on his credibility, and Voldemort had more than the right to interrogate anyone he suspected of lying to him.

If the perusal was casual, if the seeker had no reason to doubt, Occlumency worked just fine; if Lord Voldemort assaulted your mind with all his considerable power, intent on unmasking all of your lies, no power in heaven or hell could save you. Certainly, no power in heaven or hell had saved Severus Snape. There were some things he pushed back far enough that they remained hidden; there were other things that the Dark Lord never thought to seek, and still others that, upon finding, he deemed too insignificant to investigate. Even so, he found a wealth of unlooked-for knowledge in the mind of the newly-discovered double agent. What he did not find, what he sought most of all, was the location of the Order's headquarters. (There were some things Kreacher had been ordered to keep secret, regardless of whom he served; this was one of those things.)

It was, in fact, to discern the location of the Order's chief hideout that the Death Eaters had apprehended her in the first place. She was tortured, raped, beaten for three days; she said nothing. She was brought before the Dark Lord on the night of the fourth day, after Severus' treachery had been discovered in the morning. He lunged for her mind and she recoiled, physically and mentally, to little avail. She was only a mediocre Occlumens and now was not the time of mediocrity. She took the only refuge she could find, transformed into the familiar ginger tabby. The Dark Lord could not break the mind of a cat; after all, what was there to break? A cat knows nothing, and her true mind, by whatever magic, was locked far away from the pouncing, fish-loving cat-brain. She did, however, hear the effeminate yet terrifying shriek of rage that followed.

Death Eaters are, as a rule, Slytherins. Slytherins are, as a rule, not clever with Transfiguration. Such talents are usually reserved for Gryffindors, or perhaps Ravenclaws, who are clever at most everything. But, truthfully, even in a room of the best Gryffindor wizards, she would have surpassed them all in Transfiguration. The Marauders may have been the youngest Animagi at Hogwarts, but they were not the most talented, or the most powerful. All this to say, the numerous efforts to return her to her bipedal form, even by the Dark Lord himself, were unsuccessful. Of course, there were a number of potions that would have done the job nicely—even strong magic cannot resist the right chemistry—but such potions were Snape's contribution to the organization, and right at that moment, Severus would—rightfully—not have been trusted to make Voldemort coffee.

Voldemort, after the failure of several intricate schemes, had come to see the truth in the old adage that the best-laid plans often go astray; he had, therefore, revamped his strategies. He now felt that the simplest plans were often best. Reflecting this attitude, his plan for his guests was quite simple: Torture Snape until either he broke from the pain and revealed all or she broke from seeing her lover tortured and returned to human form. It was an excellent plan.

It did _not_ all happen so fast. It was _not_ all one big blur. She _did_ remember exactly what happened. She had stood and watched, seen it all, had it burned into her memory in exquisite detail. Every curse they threw at him, every contortion of his body, every moan, every howl, every rivulet of blood from some place it never should have been was emblazoned on her psyche like a brand. The Dark Lord did not waste his breath asking questions or making demands. No, he only laughed, laughed hysterically, maniacally as he vented his rage at the grossest betrayal he had ever encountered from one of his thralls.

Severus stood proud at first, then fell to his knees when his legs spasmed out from under him. Eventually, he crumpled altogether from the strain of the curses and the beatings and lay flat on his back on the cold stone floor. His blood pooled and clotted beneath him while above him a circle of torch-wielding Death Eaters leered and laughed.

One particularly vicious blast from the Dark Lord's wand sent Severus' body arching up like a bridge over the lake of his own blood. He rested on the toes of his boots and on his fingertips for an instant...and then another...and then another...and then fell smashing back to the stones. His urine now joined the pool of blood in which he lay. His head smashed into the floor with brutal force and his skull cracked open—a clear, unmistakable sound of breaking bone and a particularly hellish cry—and there was more than mere blood under his matted, sweaty hair.

So, no, it did not happen so fast. In fact, it happened in slow motion. Every millisecond dragged out until it felt like a day, maybe even a week. She yowled, struggled free of Lucius Malfoy's grip, and ran to him—to his body, rather; he was already dead by the time her swift feline feet carried her the three yards to where he lay. Inside she was crying, snarling, hissing with bereavement, misery, and anger. Outside, all she could do was lick his face gently, try and clean some of the blood off.

Voldemort had not meant to kill the traitor. Snape was _useful_, _irreplaceable_ even. His talent with the cauldron had been a blessing to the Dark Lord countless times. He had intended to have what he wanted out of the two Order members, then place Snape under the Imperius curse and retain his services. He had not meant to kill the man and when he did, he stood momentarily still with the shock of this sudden turn of events...and remained still for a moment longer, trying to remember a spell to save the Potions Master's life, return him from the dead, or, at least, gather the knowledge from his smashed brain. It was in this moment, with the Dark Lord still as a statue and his minions looking to him for orders, that her thoughts turned fully to anger. Her small body whipped around, prepared to run at Voldemort, leap on him and bite out his snake's eyes...and saw him frozen.

The decision was not so hard, comparatively. He had stood the Cruciatus for eleven hours and never once looked at her, never once called out for her to give in and reveal their secrets, never once even called her name; he had, in short, done nothing to make it harder—if that was even possible—for her to hold out, to do what she had known she must. And she had stood and watched it all.

It was not hard, comparatively, to take advantage of that frozen moment to lunge, not at the Dark Lord but at Bellatrix by his side, Bellatrix who held her wand. She had, after all, stood by and watch the man she adored most writhing in agony for half a day; she had, after all, just seen him die alone on a cold floor. She had kept silent through all of this. She had put the good of the wizarding world ahead of her own happiness, her own ethics and morals, her own humanity. So, comparatively, the decision to leave his body was not hard.

Her sharp little teeth grabbed her wand—and she could not resist drawing a long, deep scratch down Bellatrix' regal white hand—and tore out of the circle of Death Eaters, across the stone floor, up the stairs, and out of the ruined Riddle House.

The Death Eaters stirred, shouted their dismay, and begged orders of their lord, who was yet bent on reviving the valuable commodity at his feet. It was only another moment before he snapped back to reality and shrilled that the fools should go after her! They obeyed, but to no avail. It had been the work of a second, two at most, for her to transform and Apparate away, then again and again and again, just to confuse their tracing spells—which they did indeed attempt. Even in her weakened condition, she made it back to 12 Grimmauld Place before she collapsed completely. Later, Lupin would tell her how he had found her lying just inside the door and how they had summoned Fawkes to carry her to Madam Pomfrey.

Well, and Madam Pomfrey had soothed her wounds and given her teas to regain her strength, but it was beyond even Poppy's magic to make her feel again.


	2. The Dark Ages

_Not So Sweet  
Or, Part II of Not So Fast_  
Eulalie Moire

_See Part I for notes and disclaimers. Also, my thanks to LinZE, who suggested I continue._

ooo-ooo

It was _not_ so sweet, it was _not_ so slow, it was _not_ so tender. Hell, it wasn't even raw and animalistic. In fact, it just _was_. They were both close to dead, inside and out, and their shagging reflected this. They did not call out endearments when they fucked—and what they did cannot be called anything more than fucking—and they did not hold each other and kiss afterwards. In fact, she called out for Severus and he for Hermione when they called out at all. Thus, because he had hated Snape and she did not approve of a middle-aged man's pedophilic tastes for a seventeen year old girl, they could not even comfort each other after the sex; neither felt any real sympathy for the other's pain. No, but, having long been friends, they were each sorry that the other hurt, that the other pined after an unattainable love. So they fucked. It was someone to touch, something to do. It filled hours neither spent asleep anymore.

Remus did not resent that she saw Snape's face below her as she rocked atop him each night; in fact, it alleviated much of his guilt about seeing Hermione Granger's face above him, moving so pleasantly around him. Understand, this was guilt for Minerva's sake, guilt that he should be with her and yet not focused on her, not guilt over fantasizing about that cleverest of witches. He confessed his affection to Minerva and Minerva alone. Dark-hearted and miserable as she might have been those days, still she neither approved nor understood his lusting—and was quick to tell him so. But she also did not mind that he called another name as he came inside her; she was doing the same, wasn't she?, and Minerva was no hypocrite. Hadn't she proved this as she'd taken her own admonitions to the other lovers in the Order to not place personal loyalties ahead of the Greater Good? No, she was no one to judge.

Maybe there have been lies told in this account; they did speak to each other once afterwards. She lay against him and shivered. He asked if she was cold and pulled a blanket over her. She said she wasn't, said in truth she was burning, burning with guilt, self-loathing. Self-loathing Remus knew well, so he asked if he could help, though he suspected she would offer only her habitual "No." Instead she offered a confession in broken tones:

"What sort of person am I that I just left him there...that I just left him to...to rot there on the floor...that I just stood and watched him die...such a sick, horrible death...and just stood by... I mean, it's no wonder everyone thinks I'm heartless because I _am_ heartless. What human-hearted, warm- blooded woman could do what I did?"

"Minerva, you did what you had to do; you did what was best for th—"

She jerked furiously in his arms, began to speak quickly and angrily: "Do _not_ spout clichés about love and duty to me Remus. I know I did what was best for the bloody Order, but _how could I_? I love Severus more than I have ever loved anything or anyone. But I don't love him enough to sacrifice everything for him, apparently. I must not be capable of that kind of love. I must be defective. Maybe it's too much time alone, too many years. Or maybe I'm just a wretched excuse for a human being...that I can't love...Merlin save me... Everyone else chooses love...in the great novels, our legends, Muggle films...everyone else chooses their great loves...and I...I..."

Her fury ebbed as her tirade progressed so that by its end her speech was as broken as it had been when she began her confession.

He spent only a moment wondering where she'd gotten the idea people thought she was heartless, but didn't raise the subject. He only said, "You're not cold, Minerva, not cruel. You're only brave, too brave, and too wise for your own good. Stop blaming yourself. You've got too many problems without that guilt."

He knew it was insufficient, but there was nothing else to say. He supposed he could have added that everything would be all right, but he did not himself know that it would. If his and Minerva's friendship was built on anything, it was honesty, as their no-strings-attached fucking demonstrated; therefore, he omitted that last statement.

He might also have tried the old standby: "Severus wouldn't want you to torture yourself like this." But he wasn't sure about that, either. Severus, for what Remus considered obvious and understandable reasons, had never been loved enough, so when Minerva came along, he drank her affection as though it were the Elixir of Life and he a dying man. In point of actual fact, Remus found it entirely likely that Severus _would_ have reveled in the misery his loss was causing Minerva. He would have enjoyed knowing how deeply she loved him. He would have appreciated knowing that he was remembered. He would have been deliriously happy to know that letting him die at the Riddle House that night had cost Minerva her soul. He would have savored all of this, Remus thought, so didn't tell her that lie either.

When sleep finally did come to Remus Lupin, he was thinking that maybe, that night Minerva turned up bleeding, half-dressed, hysterical, and barely conscious, he should have just put her to bed and let her bleed out quietly in her sleep. It would have been merciful, he judged.


	3. The Enlightenment

_Not Anymore_

Eulalie Moire

_See part I for notes and disclaimer._

ooo

Minerva suffered until she could not suffer any longer and then she began to think logically again. Humans are meant to survive great losses; if they weren't, how could the species have survived thus far? There is always a coping mechanism—one has only to find it. What she could not bear she must end. Suicide was not an option. There was no one else to stand in Dumbledore's place.

_To be or not to be, that is the question._

_But I cannot not be, and so I must be. But how?_

She needed a coping device, and quickly. _Think of what you know. Find solace in the familiar, or whatever remains of it. What do I know? _What _did_ she know? _Transfiguration. The cat?_ That cat had saved her once, might it save her again? _No._ She needed to transform her mind, her thoughts, her very nature. Her current thought processes did not allow her to incorporate the events surrounding Severus' death into a healthy, manageable order, so she created new processes. Transfiguration, indeed.

"Get up, Remus. I need to talk and I need you to listen." _Don't snarl at him, he's not your student anymore._ But he was her sometimes-lover. And more importantly, he was all she had left.

Lupin nodded. She sat on the edge of the bed.

"Severus was not kind."

Lupin snorted. In her lap, Minerva's clasped hands tensed. Lupin saw and was quiet.

"But he was honorable. There _is_ honor among thieves…and Slytherins. There is honor among spies. My honor and my pride were what Severus loved most about me. He told me that often—or…often for Severus…as often as he said such things… He called me a lioness—fierce, proud, and loyal. In his mouth, that old cliché sounded like a revelation. He meant it, you see. He died silently so that I would not betray the Order, so that my pride and my honor might remain intact. He died protecting what he loved in me and I—well, I acted exactly as he wanted me to act."

Remus stared at her, disbelieving. She ignored him, rose from the bed and began to pace. Her words were measured, tense.

"And besides…he was old before his time…worn physically and spiritually. He would have had no future after the war. Even those of you who know he was a spy loath him. You—and I don't mean _you_, per se, except that I _do_—would never have let him lead a normal life."

Remus made a motion of protest and Minerva rolled her eyes in response. The gesture struck Remus as uncharacteristic. In truth, Minerva had meant to imply that his protests weren't worth acknowledging, but her anger got the better of her. "It's true, you know. There would never have been peace for him in this world. It's human nature. You, of all people, understand what it's like to be a pariah, but you—"

Remus opened his mouth to object, but Minerva waved a hand in dismissal and continued. "Oh, come now. I know you were never discourteous. And I know perfectly well that he abhorred you. I don't care about the petty civilities. I refer to the fact that as long as he might have lived, you would always have distrusted him. You would never let him forget, never let him make a new life for himself. Never."

Remus, aggravated almost beyond expression, nonetheless recognized the truth of the allegation. No, he and his friends would never accept Snape. Snape, in everything he said and did, had always been decidedly _un_acceptable. He knew better than to say that last aloud, so he settled for asking, "Do you really believe all of this, Minerva?"

She stopped, shrugged. "Maybe. Sometimes. I have to believe it. I choose to believe it. It offers me freedom from guilt and misery which I find I can no longer bear." She smiled, just slightly. "I give myself full marks for effort and creativity, at least."

Lupin was silent and Minerva understood his silence to be his own best effort at being supportive. Lupin was quite mistaken about nearly every aspect of Severus' character, but he could still have easily torn her arguments to shreds. Yet he seemed content to allow the scabs to form.

She nodded her thanks and moved to the door, where she stopped briefly before exiting. In repayment of his silence, she said, "I hear Miss Granger has broken off with Ronald Weasley. I expect now would be an opportune time to comfort her."


End file.
